


Fine New Edition

by annecoulmanross



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Renaissance, First Meetings, Flirting, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:53:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28816641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annecoulmanross/pseuds/annecoulmanross
Summary: London, 1610: Henry Peglar is sent to the bookshop to acquire a book, and finds rather more than he expected, in the best possible way.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Clark Ross, John Bridgens/Henry "Harry" Peglar
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31
Collections: Bridglar Week 2021, The Terror Bingo





	Fine New Edition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaserl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaserl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [illustrious order of wandering stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27362920) by [kaserl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaserl/pseuds/kaserl). 



> For the incredibly talented @[kaserl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaserl/pseuds/kaserl) who wrote the brilliant Rossier Renaissance AU in which this small Bridglar fic takes place. I meant to write a whole series of Bridglar stories, one for each day of Bridglar Week, and give each of them as gifts to a whole series of friends. I may someday finish each of the ideas I had, but for now, I’ve only managed to write just this one – thank you, Hannah, for everything you’ve done for me, and I hope this small idea in a stolen setting makes you smile. 
> 
> Day 1 of Bridglar Week: “When I was on Old England Shore,” and a fill for the Terror Bingo prompt “Temptation.”

studying the system of the world can acquaint you with  
geometrical infinities, the secret principle which causes  
every planet to turn on its own axis, and the orbit of _Venus_.

– cento poem composed by @[plasmapop ](https://plasmapop.tumblr.com/post/640570122494509056/170121-voltaire-letters-on-the-english)  
from quotations of Voltaire's _Letters on the English: Letter XV: On Attraction_

&

Henry knew better than to run his inky fingers over the clean leather cover of the book he was admiring.

But still, he was so _tempted_.

The book in question was bound in rich polished calf, and it was not small – in width it was more than the span of Henry’s fingers, and in height perhaps a foot. A full folio, albeit a small one. Displayed to show off both the freshly-tooled gilded binding and the beautiful printed text, the volume seemed almost to glow amongst the dust motes in the tidy little bookshop around the corner from Henry’s employers’ townhouse.

Mr. Crozier had sent Henry to George Eld’s bookshop to pick up something new for Mr. Crozier to read while the poor man waited anxiously for his partner to return from Padua. Mr. Ross had been gone some months; it was no wonder that Crozier, his other half, was taking the separation poorly. Henry was sympathetic – and of an inclination to know something about the true nature of poor Crozier’s attachment to Mr. Ross – but found himself somewhat confused at the task of acquiring reading material. Mr. Crozier hadn’t managed to read anything in weeks, apart from the letters he received now and again, all of them bearing Mr. Ross’s near-illegible handwriting.

Besides, Henry was a copyist, not a natural philosopher in his own right; he wasn’t like Mr. Crozier’s flashy young apprentices. Bright students of the universities, so interested in the heavens. Certainly Henry loved the stars, but this was a job to him – it put food on the table, paid for his little brother’s apprenticeship at the foundry. Still, Henry had found it hard to protest when Mr. Crozier had pushed him out of the observatory that morning with a scowl, pressing a few pounds into his palm with instructions to go to Eld’s and find him “a distraction.”

But now Henry had become rather distracted himself.

It wasn’t as though Mr. Crozier would want this particular book. One single look told Henry that this was not a philosophical or mathematical treatise of the type Mr. Crozier favored – it looked rather more like a literary commentary, and though it was in perfectly readable English, the names inked across the page weren’t at all familiar to Henry. Too Latinate, they seemed, and Henry suddenly felt his journeyman’s education quite sharply. Though he could copy it well enough, he’d never quite gotten the hang of reading the Roman tongue.

Henry sighed heavily.

“Have your eye on that one?”

Henry startled, but it seemed to be only the shopkeeper, a dignified older man with a perpetually wary look. When Henry had first wandered in, the man’s brow had lifted suspiciously. He now appeared to have warmed at last to Henry’s purposeless browsing, however, for a faint smile tipped up his lips as he tucked a lock of his grey hair behind one ear. The motion made something turn over in Henry’s chest and he glanced back at the leather-bound volume to steady himself.

Henry felt himself nodding at the man’s question, though. The book was lovely, even if Henry truly couldn’t buy it.

“It’s a fine new edition,” the shopkeeper continued. “I printed it myself last week.”

Awe flooded through Henry’s voice. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

The shopkeeper blushed, a soft pink warmth suffusing his cheeks, as Henry watched with interest. After a moment, the man managed to ask a question: “Have you enjoyed Augustine?”

Henry shook his head – his turn to blush. “I’m not– I’ve not had the chance.”

“Difficult when _City of God_ has only been in Latin ’til now,” the shopkeeper offered.

“This is the _Civitate Dei_?” Henry asked, more than a little awestruck indeed. He’d heard of it, of course, but never had occasion to struggle through even a word of the Latin, or find someone who could summarize the arguments for him. Too far outside the scope of his work to justify the hassle.

“Aye – it’s a good year for translations,” the shopkeeper said. “Both the Augustine and William Camden’s _Britannia_ , as it happens.”

Henry laughed – he had to laugh, for the alternative was to cry. “You have _no_ idea how much simpler it would have made my life,” he confessed, “to have been able to copy out from an English version of Camden’s survey.”

“Oh?”

“My employers wanted an array of the geographical details from _Britannia_ to supplement their astronomical observations,” Henry explained. This was where he usually lost the interest of the average listener – even those with a romantic view of those natural philosophers who charted the stars didn’t much want to hear the tales of a mere copyist. But the shopkeeper looked intrigued, attentive.

So Henry poured out more details of his life. Mr. Ross and Mr. Crozier, their little crowd of excitable students like gentle Mr. Bird and dutiful Mr. McMurdo. The work of copying texts and notes and diagrams. The way the stars looked, first in the sky and then on a page; the shapes that connected them, if only in Henry’s mind, turning everything into constellations. Even Mr. Crozier’s current despondency and Henry’s errand. The “distraction.”

Eventually, Henry realized he’d lapsed into orating. “I’m sorry,” Henry said. “I don’t even know your name.”

“John,” the man said warmly, not apparently upset in the slightest. “John Bridgens.”

“Mr. Bridgens,” Henry turned the name over in his mouth. “I’m Henry – Peglar, that is. I didn’t mean to have taken up so much of your time.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Mr. Bridgens replied.

Henry swallowed. The afternoon sun was beginning to grow thin and dark like syrup; certainly Eld’s must be closing soon. “I probably ought to be going,” he said, though it sounded much more like a question than a statement.

“But you must let me help you find what you were tasked to buy,” Mr. Bridgens insisted.

Whether because it would be unwise to return to Mr. Crozier without the requested distraction, or because some part of him wanted very much to continue listening to John Bridgens, Henry allowed himself to be led back to the shelf of volumes and pamphlets and booklets on natural philosophy. He debated back and forth on what might hold enough interest for his employer without touching too closely upon topics of astronomy – which materials Mr. Crozier already knew well, and so would either agree with them so well as to grow swiftly bored, or would _disagree_ with them so strongly as to make himself quite angry.

In this task, Mr. Bridgens was a great asset, for it was almost as if he heard each of Henry’s thoughts, his private doubts and concerns, and guided him onward with ease. They passed over Bayer’s _Uranometria_ and Kepler’s _De Stella Nova_ , both of which Crozier already owned; dismissed Bacon’s _Advancement of Learning_ as being insufficiently grave to suit Crozier’s melancholy; and settled at last upon _De Magnete, Magneticisque Corporibus, et de Magno Magnete Tellure_. Henry knew that Crozier was a firm believer in the magnetic work of his contemporaries, and Bridgens assured him that _De Magnete_ was a rigorous collection of experiments, which Crozier would appreciate. Henry looked over its text and illustrations, admiring the clarity of the etchings, the simplicity of the font – it looked, to his untutored eye, rather like the other books Mr. Bridgens had printed himself, Henry thought. He wondered if this volume, too, was Bridgens’s work. Regardless, it would suit Henry’s task very well, and though the printing and binding were fine craftsmanship, _De Magnete_ was not a show-text, but one simply-made and sturdy. Crozier’s money would cover it exactly, and Henry would not have to bring back change with some explanation of bargains or cheap books; it was almost as though the price Bridgens quoted was set by the Fates, so perfect it was to Henry’s employer’s needs.

This task thus accomplished, they spoke aimlessly, neither wanting the conversation to conclude.

Eventually, inevitably, they circled back to the _City of God_ , its gilt-leather glinting and its smooth pages patiently waiting near the window.

“I’m afraid I simply don’t have the context to appreciate it,” Henry mused in response to some encouragement from Mr. Bridgens.

Gently, John Bridgens turned the lovely volume to face Henry. “Every reader brings something different to a book, and the same book can speak many different things to different readers,” Bridgens said. His face was very patient, very kind. “Why don’t you see what this one tells you?”

Henry looked down to the book before him. It was open to a page not quite at the middle, the many lines of text threatening to blur before his eyes. He sighted an unfamiliar name, and latched onto it like a lifeline.

“Varro?”

“A scholar of the Romans,” Mr. Bridgens explained. “A very brilliant man who wrote many, many books, though few now survive. Several tomes he wrote about the pagan gods of Rome, thus our Augustine’s interest.”

Henry nodded, then glanced down again.

“Go ahead,” Bridgens offered, encouraging.

“‘ _Was ever a more curious inquisitor of these matters than Varro?_ ’” Henry read aloud, the words only wavering ever-so-slightly on the page. “‘ _A more learned inventor, a more diligent judge, a more elegant divider, or a more accurate recorder?_ ’” Henry frowned. “But then – here, he calls him ‘ _not eloquent._ ’ That’s not very kind.”

Mr Bridgens nodded indulgently. “We can enjoy reading Augustine yet disagree with him,” he said softly. “Besides, those who knew Varro in life held him in higher regard, see?” He pointed now to the next page.

Halting less this time, Henry recited what was written there: “‘ _Yea, Tully leaveth this testimony of him, that he had (he saith) conversed with Marcus Varro, a man the most acute, and doubtless the most learned of his time._ ’” He looked back to Mr. Bridgens. ‘Tully’ at least was a familiar name to Henry, the only one of the ancient Romans whose work Mr. Crozier would describe fondly, describing a dream full of stars that always enchanted Henry whenever he head of it. 

“So Varro and Tully were friends?” Henry asked.

“Indeed they were,” the older man said with a small smile. “They remained so ’til the end of Tully’s life.”

There was a moment of weighty silence.

Henry realized that he’d been staring, his gaze caught in the man’s deep, dark eyes.

Clearing his throat, Henry looked away and stroked the edge of the page. “Thank you,” he said, still looking longingly at the volume. “It is certainly a very fine book.”

“You should have it.”

 _That_ certainly made Henry lift his eyes again. Surely Mr. Bridgens was teasing? But his kind, weathered face seemed entirely serious.

“I couldn’t possibly afford it,” Henry said, sadly.

The shopkeeper hummed. “You could accept a gift, no? Mr. Eld agreed I may have a copy for myself, but I have no need of one, when I can keep the proofs for my own reference.”

“I couldn’t–” Henry began to repeat, but something stopped him. How badly he wanted a book of his own, _this_ book, all for himself, pure indulgence that it was. How little he wanted to say no to Mr. John Bridgens with his lovely sweet words, his generosity, the beautiful attentive look on his fine and noble face.

With a smile, Mr. Bridgens lifted the book and closed it carefully, then held it out to Henry, who reached to take it almost instinctively.

Their fingers touched on the volume’s leather binding. A bright spark travelled through Henry, warming him all over. Mr. Bridgens – John – looked at him, and his eyes were very earnest and dark and full under his furrowed brow.

Henry swallowed, heavy with the effort of stopping his lips from curling into a wide and foolish grin. “Thank you,” he said, and the words weren’t enough but John didn’t seem to mind.

“Do come back sometime, Mr. Peglar,” John said. “I have a feeling we have many more things to discuss.”

“I will,” Henry promised.

“Soon?” John asked – tentative, not even a request but only an offer, a suggestion. Yet his thumb ran lightly over Henry’s knuckles.

Henry smiled. There was no helping it.

“Soon.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Historical Notes:** George Eld was a real publisher operating in London in the early 17th century, and he did in fact print the [first English translation](https://www.raptisrarebooks.com/product/of-the-citie-of-god-with-the-learned-comments-of-jo-lod-vives-saint-augustine-first-edition-1610/) of St. Augustine’s _City of God_ (i.e. _De civitate Dei contra paganos,_ or, _On the City of God Against the Pagans_ ) in 1610. There’s a digital copy of this translation (by John Healey) available [online here](https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo/A22641.0001.001?view=toc), if you find you want to try your hand at reading it for yourself, though it’s not quite so readable to a modern eye as it is to Peglar’s Renaissance one. 
> 
> The other text that Bridgens mentioned at first, William Camden’s _Britannia_ (a survey of the English countryside) is one I’ve actually already mentioned in a previous fic. It was first published in Latin in 1586, and then re-released in English in 1610. Each of the texts Bridgens and Peglar discuss as possible acquisitions for Crozier are real philosophical treatises, published between 1600 and 1609. 
> 
> **Source Notes:** The title comes from the song “Georgia” by Phoebe Bridgers, where the lyric is actually, “He is a fine new _addition,_ so young and so clean,” but it sounds rather a lot like, “He is a fine new _edition._ ” This also happens to be the first song on my all-Phoebe-Bridgers Bridglar [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0WD4cckN54RoXuQcUdYUzE?si=fHoDOthaSqGalYtY3Z66xA) oops.


End file.
